So Close
by windscryer
Summary: It's been three years—to the day—since Juliet bared her heart to Shawn. Three years since he listened to her confession... and ever so gently broke her heart. Psychfic Shulesathon '09 entry. Spoilerishness for 03x16 An Evening With Mr. Yang.


Disclaimer: If I were in charge or even on the writing staff, I would be the Vince Gilligan of Psych.

(Most of you probably have no idea what that means. But trust me, it's true.)

(And it would be awesome. :D)

And I think I have to call it unbeataed because even though Lu read it through, she wasn't really coherent by the end. So if there are mistakes, blame me. She won't care anyway. I think she's _still_ high from this.

Ugh. I hesitate to do this for fear of making this MORE sappy than it already is, but if you're wondering about the song at the end of the story, my personal soundtrack was playing "So Close" by Jon McLaughlin from the _Enchanted_ OST—which is where the story title comes from.

But feel free to substitute another song in there if you like. :D

* * *

It's been three years—to the day—since Juliet bared her heart to Shawn in the concessions lobby of a drive-in movie theater.

Three years since he listened to her confession... and ever so gently broke her heart.

It was obvious he regretted having to do it, but knowing why he did... she's not sure she could have still respected him if he hadn't said what he did.

A lot has happened in the last three years.

Lassiter got promoted to Lieutenant First Class. Chief had a second child, a little brother for Iris. Gus moved up in the ranks as well and now oversees the training of all the new sales reps at Central Coast. McNab and Francie also welcomed a new arrival to their house—though it has four legs, a tail, and long floppy ears it constantly trips over. Shawn has solved cases to the tune of a ninety-eight percent success rate. (And will argue that it's the full one hundred percent, given the chance.)

And Juliet?

She's sure things have happened. They had to right? How could she live three years and have nothing happen?

Even _coma_ patients have things happen in three years.

And yet, she sort of feels like she's been standing still. Like life has gone on around her, but she's not really been a part of it. Like she's a statue in the park, a mannequin in the store window.

Oh she's _done things_.

She goes to work every day and processes criminals and solves cases. She feeds her cats and takes them to the vet and combs their fur. She washes her hair and brushes her teeth and picks out clothes to wear. She vacuums the floor and washes dishes and does laundry. But that's just going through the motions. It's being alive, but not _living_.

She feels like a spectator in her own life.

Shawn dated Abby for three months. It was only four dates, their schedules—mostly Shawn's—interfering too much for more than that. And, Juliet suspects, he wasn't as invested in the relationship as he appeared to be.

There have been other girls since then. Some lasting as long as four dates themselves, though usually over much more time.

She doesn't pry, so she doesn't always know their names—and the details of who asked out who and who broke up with who are often pure speculation on the part of the SBPD gossip mill.

But she can always tell _when_ the relationship ends.

He seems... happier. Lighter. Like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

Which is sort of ridiculous because it's not like his relationships ever end badly. He still talks to most of the girls he's dated. They've just... usually found someone else.

She wishes it was that easy for her to move on. But after three years of waiting and watching and playing the silent role in the play of her life, she's finally figured out what's wrong.

Shawn Spencer spent three years pining for her— Well, okay. That might be a bit melodramatic.

But he did spend three years flirting with her and teasing her and making it quite clear that he was very much interested in her. She blew him off. She deflected and distracted and slipped neatly out of his reach time and time again.

And now she's discovering that the view from this side of the tables is a pretty crappy one.

But she's not sure what else to do.

Should she ask him out again? Should she just force herself to date someone else and hope that, eventually, this ache will go away?

She picks up her stuff, quietly packs away her things, and says to Carlton, "I'm off for the day. I'll see you tomorrow."

He grunts and gives her that look—that sort of scrutinizing stare that has become very common on his face recently—and says, "We've got to be at the court house early tomorrow, O'Hara." She waves in acknowledgment and then trudges out to her car.

A quiet drive home through neither empty, nor packed streets and she parks in her driveway. She takes a moment to stare at her house and wonders when it started to look so tired.

Maybe it's not the house. Maybe it's her. She feels tired. Not like she-needs-a-good-night's-sleep-tired, either. Like she-needs-a-vacation-and-a-massage-and-someone-to-tell-her-what-to-do-to-get-back-into-her-own-life-tired.

With a weary sigh she climbs out of her car, fetches her things from the back seat, and locks her doors.

She's mentally weighing the options of Lean Cuisine Fettuccine Alfredo versus Michelena's Lasagna, when she gets to the door and decides... she really doesn't care.

So when she opens her door and hears Vivaldi playing softly, it doesn't quite register.

Well, it _registers_. Her bags slide to the floor to be silently set down and she slips her service weapon from her purse, bringing the slide back and thumbing the safety off. Her shoes are silently shed and she carefully closes the door so it makes no sound, even though anyone present surely heard her open it.

Let them think she left again when she heard the music, so long as they don't think she's coming to find them.

She's on high alert, her blood pounding loudly in her ears and she can't help but think that this might be the most alive she's felt in almost three years as she stalks down her front hall in her pantyhose-clad feet toward the kitchen where there is a light on.

She stops at the doorway and flattens herself against the wall, focusing for just a moment on her breathing, her eyes darting to the room next to her.

She can hear her intruder rummaging around in her fridge, but the angle makes it impossible for her to see anything other than fingers curled over the top of the door.

She looks back at the front entry, wondering if she should have stayed outside and called for backup, then shakes her head. She can handle this.

She turns back and sees him there, holding two wine glasses in one hand, her bottle of Chianti Montalbano that her brother brought back from Italy last year in the other.

There is a moment of surprise—made more intense by the fact that, when she turned she raised her gun and now has it aimed directly at his heart—before she lowers her gun and he lowers his eyebrows.

"Jules!" Shawn says. "You're just in time! I was about to pour."

Her eyes slide away from him, over to her table, where a fine linen table cloth covers the dark wood. Cloth napkins are folded into beautifully intricate swans that swim in the center of cream colored plates, highlighted with gold accents, and flanked by polished silver cutlery. A basket of steaming garlic bread sits in the middle of the table. Two thin, maroon taper candles stand tall in silver candlesticks. They are, as of yet, unlit.

Shawn sets the glasses down and with a bit of effort pops the cork out of the bottle of wine. He pours and offers her the glass and after a moment of staring at it dumbly—then glancing up to see he's faintly amused by her befuddlement—she takes it.

Her other hand has the gun and she stares at it as well until he speaks.

"Dinner's already dead. And if you really want me to go, you need only to ask."

She flushes bright red and takes a healthy swallow of her wine, then heads upstairs to put her weapon away.

She stays up there longer than she should—longer than is polite—but she can't quite bring herself to move from the spot in front of her vanity, staring at the mirror. She's not dressed for dinner. Certainly not for fine Italian food.

And suddenly, it matters.

She's gradually stopped putting more than the barest effort into her appearance over the last three years. That has to change now.

She strips off her clothes and stares at the bathroom in indecision before deciding that a shower is definitely necessary.

It's quick and scalding hot, but she's clean when it's done. Her hair is pinned up in a way that will make it dry funny when she takes it out, but she doesn't have time for anything more fancy. She agonizes over her clothing for several very long minutes before she hears Shawn singing in badly butchered Italian downstairs and is reminded that she's on a deadline.

She throws on what's in her hands, a simple black skirt and a nice blouse that isn't too dressy, but still flatters her enough to boost her confidence.

She's waiting for him to call for her, waiting for him to ask what's taking so long, maybe to tell her that it's cold and he's leaving, but until he does she's going to use her time.

She applies makeup, not excessive, but more than the lip gloss and eye shadow she's worn for the last three years. Then she stands in front of her full length mirror and looks herself over. She's not sure she recognizes the woman staring back.

Hopefully Shawn will.

She takes several deep breaths—and then a few more when she feels a little light headed—then heads back downstairs.

Shawn is nowhere to be seen, but the candles are lit.

She swallows and a moment of doubt has her wondering if she's reading too much into this. Then there's the sound of a shoe on the floor behind her and she turns—and gasps.

Shawn's cleaned himself up.

Gone are the jeans and tee and orange-plaid flannel. Slacks and a shirt that's not quite dress, but certainly edging off the casual scale have taken their place. If he had a tie and the top button were done up, he could easily have escorted her to a restaurant that sold absurdly small portions for exorbitantly high prices.

He's freshly shaven and his hair looks wet, though if that's from an attempt to tame it or just a touch up of whatever styling gel he uses, she's not sure.

She no longer feels overdressed though.

He enters the room fully, smiling slightly, and takes her hand, bringing it up to his lips to brush over her knuckles.

She just about swallows her tongue.

"Shawn," she says, and realizes with a start that it's the first thing she's said to him since she got home.

"Jules," he says with a tilt of his head. He walks toward her and she takes an involuntary step back, but he just continues past until he's behind her chair, pulling it out.

Good thing too because her knees are liquefying and she's going to end up on her ass if she doesn't accept the invitation.

He scoots her in, leaning over her shoulder just slightly, and every hair on the back of her neck stands up at attention at his closeness. "You look incredible," he says and she wonders if that's her ears or his voice that makes it quiver slightly.

He makes a detour to the counter where he picks up their salads, settling hers in front of her before heading to his own seat.

She doesn't taste a single thing she eats all night.

He makes small talk, asks about her cases and her family and—somehow, though hell if she knows how—she answers and even poses a few of her own questions.

She still feels like a spectator, but this time it's more like a video game or one of those movies about aliens. She's not entirely sure she's the one in control of her body.

Dinner is spaghetti, and they eat and slurp and blush and laugh their way through, Shawn taking an opportunity or two to wipe off sauce from her cheeks or lips that she's pretty sure isn't there.

She couldn't stop him if she wanted to.

Dinner is tiramisu and she eats far more than she should, but she can't stop herself from doing that either. She doesn't want this to end.

Shawn clears the last of their plates away, acting as waiter as he has all night, and she's staring at a spot of sauce on the table cloth, rubbing at it with her fingertip.

She _really_ doesn't want this to end.

The music shifts from the Italian opera and various composers from the same country, into something a little more... Her brow furrows. Well it's not Vivaldi, that's for sure.

The piano intro plays as Shawn comes over and offers her a hand and she—with a glance at him to try and discern what he's up to—accepts and allows herself to be tugged to her feet.

She's led into her living room, the center of which has been conspicuously cleared, and with one hand on her waist, the other lightly grasping her hand at just below shoulder height, he starts to dance, an easy slow shuffle that's more rocking back and forth than actually dancing.

She's not sure if the wine has gone to her head or she just forgot to breathe, but she's feeling a little dizzy as they turn in small, slow circles. He's singing along with the words, but she's so wrapped up in how _perfect_ this all is that she can't concentrate on what he's saying until he stops singing and starts talking.

"You know," he says softly, as the singer continues to croon in the background, "three years ago you shared with me some of the most... _wise_ words I've ever heard."

He leans in a little more until they're just about cheek to cheek and she keeps her head very still for fear he'll startle and back away.

"You said that 'the best things, the richest things, aren't supposed to come easily.'" He moves his head a fraction of an inch and there's smooth skin touching her own, the heat of him warming her and causing her eyelids to fall shut.

The music swells and his spinning speeds up a bit until she feels like she's flying, her body pressed to his as he all but picks her up and carries her into the music, the only thing keeping her from soaring off into space his hands, one arm wrapped around and clinging to her waist, the other clutching her own.

She _never_ wants this to end.

But the music slows and softens until it's the almost-lullaby from the beginning, and his steps match it, her toes finding the ground again and reluctantly taking her weight back onto them.

Her eyes open as they come to a stop, but he's only barely pulled back, just enough for her to see him.

"These last three years..." His eyes close and she swears she's on the verge of crying, seeing the pain there before it's hidden behind his lids. His eyes open again and he continues. "I watched you. I watched you fade away and withdraw into yourself and I wanted to say something, _anything_, to make it better. But Jules, I couldn't. I wasn't— I needed—" He sighs and leans forward until his forehead is resting on hers.

"I wasn't ready. I wanted it _so badly_," he breathes. "But that wouldn't have been fair to you." He swallows and she's got her eyes wide, praying tears aren't going to well up. "The best things aren't supposed to come easily and they don't." He starts swaying again and smiles.

"But they're definitely worth it."

She can't help the smile curving her own lips and, dammit, she's crying, but she can't help that either.

One of his hands comes up to gently touch her jaw, his thumb sweeping up over her cheek and wiping away her tears, though more fall.

"Juliet, three years ago you asked me out on a date. I turned you down because I was already on one, and I regretted having to do that, but I probably shouldn't have accepted anyway. And I know I went about things a little backward tonight because I didn't even ask you this time. But I—" He swallowed again. "I couldn't take the chance that you'd say no. Because even if it never happens again, I wanted this one night, this one _perfect_ night, with you."

She should say something, but she's pretty sure if she tried, anything she had in mind would come gibberish.

He sways for another moment or two, then says, "But I don't want to push you. I'm not trying to... force you into anything. So if you've changed your mind in the last three years, all you have to do is say so and I'll leave. I'll go back to that nice safe professional distance and I won't ever tease you or flirt with you again."

"No!"

Her intensity surprises them both and he jerks back, uncertainty shadowing his brilliant eyes.

"No, you don't want me to go? Or no, you don't want me to stay?"

"Don't go," she says, sounding like he's told her he's going off to war and she's pleading for another five minutes, five seconds, _five heartbeats_ with him. She wraps her arms around his back, holding tight, and says again, "Don't go."

After a moment his grip tightens as well and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, nuzzling down until she's got the tip of her nose on his artery and can _feel_ his heartbeat.

She starts crying for real now, the sobs soft at first but building in intensity. His hands moves on her back, rubbing lightly up and down.

"It's okay, Jules," he says, sounding a bit alarmed and concerned at her response, but mostly his voice is soothing and easy and gentle and exactly what she needs right now. "It's okay."

They stand there in her living room and she cries into his shirt, soaking it through until it makes _her_ uncomfortable, but he doesn't say anything but, "It's okay."

He kisses her head and her cheek and just holds her while she breaks down and dissolves in a cascade of tears. And she doesn't even know why she's crying.

Is it that she's so sad that it took them this long? Or so happy that they finally made it here together?

She doesn't know and may never.

And as Shawn continues to hold her, waiting so patiently for her to get her head on straight, like he did for the first three years, she thinks that maybe it matters, the things that brought them here, the obstacles they had to overcome.

Maybe it matters, and maybe it doesn't.

Because whatever roads they took and bridges they crossed, they ended up here together.

And maybe _that's_ what really matters.

* * *

This fic has been brought to you by the American Dental Association and the Vermont and Canadian Maple Syrup Industries. :D

Review, plz&thx.


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